What a Type, Indeed
by fragrantfields
Summary: 150 years from now, some author decides to write about your town. Would you want accuracy? Facts presented in favorable light? Or would you just want to understand why the story came out the way it did...  Al meets the original Al, who is not amused


**What a Type, Indeed**

Fandom: Deadwood  
>Rating: M for language, some sexual references<br>Gen fic, no pairings seen, some suggested  
>Disclaimer: I don't own anything re: Deadwood; It is HBO and David Milch's entirely<p>

Resemblance to actual people is unintended, other than documented historical figures 

This is very silly. You've been warned.

Author's Note: _150 years from now, some author decides to write about your town. Would you want accuracy? Facts presented in favorable light? Or would you just want to understand why the story came out the way it did..._

**What a Type, Indeed**

The slender man in the black frock coat walked up to the bar, looking around at the disheveled whores and worn tables with some displeasure. He rested his hands lightly on the polished wood.

"Who in _tarnation _is the proprietor of this establishment?"

The short, rather stocky-looking man behind the bar had his back to the room. He cut his eyes just enough to the left to see if his second was showing any concern. Dan was watching the stranger but didn't seem to be bracing himself for any action. Good to know he was close and alert, though.

"That would be me, my good man." Al said as he turned to face the stranger. "I'm Al Swearengen, owner, proprietor, and purveyor of a variety of comforts for gentlemen in need of same."

Better to start out gregarious, he figured, coming to a different tone if it became necessary.

The stranger gave him a blank stare, then blinked a few times. He ran his fingers down his very long handlebar mustache, smoothing it as he went. "You say you're Al Swearengen? "

He looked Al over carefully, taking in the bushy eyebrows, overlong hair, the stained vest over the greyish long underwear, the skimpy little goatee under the shaggy mustache. He looked around the Gem with an evaluative eye, then rested his gaze on Al again.

_So much for gregariousness,_ Al thought. _Cocksucker looked like the type sent to yap about threatened warrants and the like._

"Yeah, I'm him. Is there a fucking problem?"

Dan set his feet squarely on the floor, calculating distances, keeping his eyes on Al's eyes, then his hands.

"Sir, I take offense to your language, and to your slovenly appearance. You, sir, do not represent to image of an entertainment proprietor able to gross thousands of dollars a night. Forgive my bluntness, but had I seen you in the street, and not behind that bar, I fear I would have taken you for a common street thug!"

Al sighed. _Why couldn't the loonies frequent Tolliver's joint for a change?_ The mention of "thousands of dollars", though...that was an interesting statement for a loony to make. Maybe a few more words to see where this was going. Johnny was coming out of the whore hall, so it was now three to one, anything were to come of this.

"How 'bout a round on the house, over at that table, friend? See if we can't clear up an apparent misunderstanding? No offense taken over the "street thug" remark, by the way."

" I suppose," the stranger said. He mumbled something under his breath about free liquor and not getting rich, but Al didn't quite catch it.

Al pulled out a chair, offering it to the other man (and seating him with his back towards Dan).

Johnny brought over a bottle and two shot glasses. The stranger looked at the bottle with a a frown, but didn't comment. Al poured for both.

"Look, pal, I get the feeling you think our paths have crossed at some point in a less than pleasant way, going by how you're fuckin' acting. Would you mind telling me your perception of how I have given fuckin' offense?

The stranger set his hat down on the table, leaving his filled glass untouched.

"Where is the stage?" His look of disapproval increased. "Where are the fine furnishings, the gilded settees? For God's sake, man, is there even a proper gol-darn boxing ring on the premises?"

Now he looked practically mournful. "What have you done to my beautiful Gem, and what in Creation have you done to ME?"

"Well, if I knew who the fuck you_ were_, I might could help you with whatever fuckin' problem you think you have." He gave a subtle hand signal to Dan to stand by. He didn't know what the fuck was going on, but whatever it was, it seemed to be going downhill.

Al continued, "I can see this conversation may take a turn or two not suited for downstairs. Please, come up to my office." He stood, beckoning Dan over to help the stranger ascend the stairs, if it were to appear he needed encouragement to that end. Al and Dan both seemed surprised at the man's willingness to go up to Al's private office.

Noting their surprise, he turned towards them halfway up the staircase.

"I've been assured that you will not, and in fact _cannot,_ cause me any harm."

Al and Dan smiled at each other, eyebrows raised, behind the man's back. This promised to be an interesting day.

Al sat behind his desk, motioning Dan to stand by the door. The cocky stranger looked like he was moving towards Al's side of the desk, then seemed to catch himself and sat in the opposite chair.

Al pulled open his bottom drawer, noting the stranger tensing, then relaxing, as he produced his quality bourbon and two glasses.

"Jumpy, hmm?" Al smiled, genial again.

"I have to admit, I had some concerns about your knife. I appreciate your...civility."

"Right, then." Al's face darkened. "Let's start with the "who" that assured you of your safety or any other fucking thing, shall we? And a fucking introduction would not go amiss at this juncture, either."

The man squared his shoulders.

"I, sir, am the accurate historical representation of the real Alfred Swearengen."

"Uh...my name is Albert Swearengen." He looked at Dan, turning his palms up in a "what the fuck?" gesture.

" I know, I know...literary license, they said. Another term for total bollocks, if you ask me."

Al had had enough. He nodded to Dan to have his knife at the ready, then reached into his drawer for his own knife. He got his throat-cutting face on as he said, very quietly,

"Explain yourself."

Alfred took a sip of bourbon.

"I had no idea I would become such a fascinating person. I did well for myself, but there were...certain factors of my life that I would have thought would have precluded me from being seen as a heroic figure.

He looked around the office, then leaned back in his chair.

"Apparently, through an excess of imagination and various plot devices, which I still do not quite understand fully, bits and pieces of my life have been taken up, rearranged, and cobbled back together in outrageous fiction. Quite amazing, really. I'm told my story, and the story of the camp, captured a nation's attention for over three years, with some hinting it was closer to seven or eight. Imagine! And that was without telling the half of it.

"Naturally, when an opportunity came for me to come see for myself, I couldn't resist. Some ninny writer decided to play with the rules of time, space, fact and fiction, and assured me I wouldn't be harmed-something to do with future outcomes and so forth-and the next thing I knew, I was walking into a pale imitation of my Gem."

Al cocked his head. _That has a ring of fucking truth to it, but damned if I know why. _

"Let's say, sake of argument, I believe your cocksucking story about the mumble-jumbo fact and fiction shit. Can I ask you why you seem to have a fucking problem with my joint?"

"God, man, on my worst day, I didn't use such language."

Al rolled his eyes at Dan. Surprisingly, Dan spoke up.

"Remember, Al, when the Creator said we had to modernize the swearin' and the like or we would sound cartoonish?"

"Yeah, that rings a fuckin' bell. What the hell's a cartoon, anyway?"

"Something bad? Hell, I don't know. The Creator just said we had to say fuck and cocksucker a lot."

He thought for a moment. "And you and a couple others had to say cunt a bunch."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "What types you must consort with, that you do not fear a beating for such language."

Al scribbled down the sentence. Had a nice fucking feel to it...eloquent-like.

"So. Your beef with the Gem, or my fucking language?"

"Ah, the Gem. My Gem"

"You're missing the stage, the productions, the prize-fighting! There were singers, dancing girls, even circus acts. Miners get bored at least as much as they get horny. I was making money hand over fist. Darn good thing, too, since I had to rebuild my Gem two or three times. Each time better than the last, though."

He raised an eyebrow at Al. "Of course, I didn't give away liquor and whores' favors every time I turned around. Don't you think you say "it's on the house" a bit often for a businessman?"

Dan piped up. "Why'd you have to rebuild the Gem so many times?" Al shot him a glare, but that statement had gotten Dan's attention.

"Well, hell's bells, it's a totally wooden structure, isn't it? And heat, and light, and cook stoves all have to do with fire, yes? Come on, man, it's to be expected.

"For Christ's sake, the whole place burns to the ground three times, once taking the town with it. Good thing I made so much money," he leaned forward for emphasis "and refrained from giving it _away,_ so I could afford to come back bigger and better each time."

"I confess I also wonder where all three of my wives went to. I mean, I know where they went to according to historical accounts, but I see no sign of you ever having been married whatsoever." He looked at Al, then cocked an eyebrow at Dan. "Don't you find that...peculiar?"

Al stood up and braced his hands on his desk.

"You want the truth about your fucking wives, and the—the fucking circus acts and the like? You sure you want this?"

Alfred toyed with the brim of his hat. "Well, it does seem a key part of the plot here, so yes. Yes I do."

"Simple concept you, of all people, should understand.

"It all comes down to money.

"Jesus Christ, we already had a fucking cast of thousands. The Creator couldn't say hello to someone's kid sister without puttin' em in the storyline. All that costs money. I mean, it _looked _great-"

"So how come we only got three seasons, if we looked so fucking great?" Dan said under his breath.

Al turned. "I heard that."

" Anyways, people were already bitching that there was too much focus on us Als and our fucking back-story and the like, and not enough on the others. Can you imagine if we had gotten into _three_ fucking _wives_? Even if it's all blow job monologue material, it would have taken for-_ev_-er.

"And the suspension of belief those take as it _is._..oh, don't get me started!"

Alfred stood up as well, leaning forward and looking Al in the eye. "Oh, yes...the blow job monologues. Those would be the diatribes where you erased my parents...oh, wait...you erased Papa. You just made Mama a child-abandoning whore...Wiped out my twin brother, and my other nine siblings? _Those_ monologues?

"The ones that stuck me in a dad-gum orphanage, had me beaten regularly as a child, and strongly suggested I had been turned out as a ...a..."

"Cock-sucker?" Dan offered helpfully.

"Exactly! Good Lord, man. I beat all three of my wives, lied to trick innocent women into white slavery, spent time in jail on more than one occasion, and put on all manner of debauched, vile entertainment, above and beyond the plays and circus acts.

"And you make me look like a lovable rogue with a sad childhood and one suit to his name. It's outrageous!"

Al had had enough.

"Okay, one, you need to take this up with the Creator. I just do what I'm told.

"And two? You have no idea of how dimwitted accountants and network flacks can be. They got no vision, or, if they do, it's visions of keeping costs down and profits up.

"And three, you gotta keep the fans happy. And the future fans happy. And then you have your fanfic writers, and Je-sus _Christ _you do _not_ want to know what it takes to keep _them_ happy, and everything involvin' _them_ is free fucking _gratis_!"

"Tell 'im about slash, boss." Dan whispered from the corner.

Al gave Dan an evil, beetle-browed look.

Alfred waved a hand. "Go on, you've gone this far."

Al looked towards the ceiling, then into his bedroom, avoiding eye contact with Alfred.

"That last bunch I mentioned? The ones that use us for free fuckin' gratis? They sometimes like to-well, more Seth Bullock and Sol Starr than me, but they like to make us-that's us in general, mind you-um...Dan, what am I tryin' to say here?"

"They like to make guys have...uh..._sexytimes_ with other guys. Sometimes the other guy ain't even from this universe, neither.

Alfred turned pale. "What—what do you mean, " _sexytimes" _with other guys?"

Al started enjoying this. "Well, there's your basics, the fuck & suck agenda, if you like. And on occasion, pretty much every sick, degenerate, debauched act you ever thought of at your Gem, and then some."

Dan piped up. "But sometimes it's sweet, you know...romantical and gentle and bittersweet. Sometimes it happened when folks was just teenagers." His eyes took on a faraway gaze. "Sometimes they have some girl-and-guy sex, but it's never who you imagine."

"Yeah, and sometimes it was stuff that happened twenty years after one of 'em was dead, so it wasn't all hearts and flowers. Dan just gets all longing-like because nobody writes slash about him."

Alfred sighed. "I might could have been a bit hasty about coming here today. I was offended that I wasn't being represented neither accurately nor kindly, and now I find out that there are more horrific possibilities than I could have dreamed. Please accept my sincere apologies." He headed out the door, walking slowly down the stairs.

"Wait a minute, Alfred." Al and Dan both were a bit disconcerted by his sudden crestfallen departure.

"You don't have to go just yet, do you? Wouldn't mind talking some more about those money-making specialty acts you had going."

"No, gentlemen. I'm afraid my _deus ex machina_ twisted plot device is here. Have a good run."

He started to fade as he stood in front of the bar.

"Um—okay. So long, and, uh...don't take any wooden nickles!" Al waved in farewell.

As Alfred became more and more faint, Dan waved, smile on his face, and said "And stay outa stockyards, y'hear?"

An almost invisible face carrying a look of puzzlement was the last they saw of Alfred.

Al cuffed Dan on the back of the head. "What the fuck did you have to go and say that? Jeez, I thought Johnny was the dimwit." He poured and downed a shot.

"I don't have enough to do around here? Now I gotta be worried about maybe one of my guys has gone and fucked up some hoople-head time and space continuum or the like? "

He walked back up to his office. Johnny and Dan could hear words here and there, coming from down the steps.

"Fucking DVD sales...re-runs...revivals...crossovers...fucking icons and the like.._._and_ pirates! _And every other fucking thing..." as his door slammed.

Johnny looked worriedly at Dan. "You didn't mention zombies, did you, Dan?"

Dan lit a cigar, drew a deep lungful, and crossed his arms.

"Naw, Johnny. The writer didn't authorize no fucking zombies."

He poured his last shot of the story.

"And unauthorized zombies is the _last_ thing we fucking need today."


End file.
